RETORT MAGAZINE ISSN 1445_7164 - NEW ART & LITERATURE 2008

Published Monday April 14, 2008

Literature by
Simon Friel
© Simon Friel 2008

Broken Drum

‘What do you want from life?’
‘Another Mojito’, I said, and tried to kiss her. She pulled away, laughed and told me to go to the bar then if life was so simple.
She was a witch. She knew about the hidden powers of nature; how to make up brews and concoctions that could cure baldness, impotence, broken hearts and money problems. She was also an Architect.
Stupidity is often endearing to a girl. Despite the rejected kiss and my inability to rise to her philosophical challenging, I woke up the next morning with her number on the table next to the sofa where I had passed out.
We met in Café Flamingo three days later. Martina walked into the bar as I remembered her- small, blonde, cute and stern. Within 5 minutes, her phone rang and she asked if I wouldn’t mind her Swedish flatmate coming to join us.
Blow out.
Martina and her friend spoke together in German while I hung awkwardly on the black, leather stool neither standing nor sitting. Her friend left to go to the bathroom and she smiled at me for the first time since we had met and explained how the girl’s boyfriend had just broken up with her.
I carried my confusion onto the football pitch later; scored three goals, kicked an opponent in the back and was sent off.
2 days later I called Martina. The Swede answered the phone and said Martina couldn’t speak as she had lost her voice. Fucking bitch.
The following day, I composed myself and sent an sms wishing her a speedy recovery.
No reply.
At home I vented my frustration on Esteve. The flat was a fucking mess, cockroaches crawled over my face while I slept, there were no doors on my bedroom, the toilet didn’t flush and he had left plates in the sink from the last time he had been gracious enough to put in an appearance at the flat we theoretically shared. ‘Calm down’, he said, ‘let’s have a few drinks and we can sort everything out mañana’.
I bought beers and a bottle of whisky from the supermarket while he started on dinner. Drinking delayed the eating of the food and Esteve restrained me from punching the neighbour when he came banging at the door to complain about the noise. My mobile shivered against my leg- ‘What is your address?’
Fuck me. Beers, a full bottle of whisky, no food, a flat full of rage and a reply.
Martina and the Swede came accompanied by a third girl I didn’t know. The entrance to our building resembled a crack den more than a hospitable abode and the girls wouldn’t come up alone. Esteve went down to walk them up while I threw water on my face to chase away the alcohol.
The third girl was Norwegian and in love with Esteve by the time they had got to the front door.
Martina was lovely and mute, her voice truly gone.
I was a wild, stupid fool and sought solace and distraction in choosing a CD from the collection that filled our wooden bookcase. Primal Scream, empty. Guero, Empty. Daydream Nation, empty.
On my haunches in front of the bookcase I felt the strength going in my legs. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a black stool just behind me. I fell back softly to its weight and my head hit the floor with a solid thud.
The large, black plastic bin bag that was to be my chair clung pathetically to my face as I tried to figure out my mistake.
I was down.
The world was loud and spinning in Mallorquin, Norwegian and Swedish laughter.
Germany was silent.